Where the plaster had faded to show the bare bones,
Stood the stable, decaying, with rafters that groaned. 
Slanted with grief and a roof full of holes,
Beside the old graveyard, a long-silenced soul. 

The paint chipped and peeled, left the hayloft exposed,
Its gate warped and wedged with the wood decomposed.
A view of the pub, fixed in vacant despair, 
Disregarded and cold, for no pity was shared. 

The wry batten door at the back called my name,
A veil of brown dust as I broke through the frame. 
Inside was a maze, fallen beams, broken coops,
Still fixed to the walls, I found giant steel loops. 

Angry bats breaking free as I tread down the straw.
Arachnids burst out, vast and black, crawling claws. 
They scattered aghast as I pushed further through,
Like a whispering wave, moving fast as it grew.

I smelled rotting flesh as the air touched my face, 
For all that was left was to end in this place.
Old crates stacked on top, I climbed up with no hope,
One beam, still alive, strong enough for a rope.

I am in love with a memory—
a whisper
from another time,
another place.

It’s a little hazy,
hard to recall.
Maybe
it wasn’t real at all.

But I fell in love,
and it felt pure.
It was romantic.
It made my heart stir.

I was happy.
I was hopeful.
I thought life was finally
following a script.

Every moment had meaning.
Every step had its place.
I thought I knew the ending.
I thought I knew my fate.

Now I’m left wondering:

Was I in love with you,

or was I in love
with the life
I believed we’d live?

Theatre of nostalgia
Two essences on the stage
Mister Past and I
Dancing back to the classic rhythm.

Tick – tock, I hear the echoes
Of footsteps fading long ago,
Memories lays on fragile shadows
Dancing where I used to know.

Tick – tock, footstep touch on the next track
Mister past still hums on every dance,
Soft as dust in golden light,
Calling me through distant whispers,
Break the silence of the night.

Tick – tock, I stand within the present
Breathing moments as they are,
Yet the echoes keep on weaving
Threads of then into the now.

Tick – tock, and somewhere in nowhere future,
Echoes come a thing
Timing to what would be
Lighting beyond the dawn.

Tick – tock, tick – tock and tick – tock
Beginning to the end
While the end is beginning
Past to present then future
What reason for splitting them
While it always be nonsensical
Time resounds in endless circles.

Our bed feels cold, like laying underneath sheets of ice,
when you head to bed alone and I sloth in later. 

Heated emotions that out a frozen mattress to one filled with tears,
as I struggle to stay afloat on this wiggling mess.

I lie on my bed for four hours 
losing patches of time
feeling dizzy
not knowing which layer 
of reality 
I’m on.

I have melted 
into the mattress,
a fortress for this
hapless, helpless 
gravitas

which sinks
as I drown
on the brink
doing time.

The worlds have gone blurry
and weary
I see between the particles 
an arsenal 
to set alight 
this carnival
and everything blows up.

I see streams of flames
and blood
falling before my eyes 
soddening, burning 
my compact heard 
which explodes
until
everything and
nothing 
exists.

I don’t know where I am 
or
where I went.

They hurriedly throw 
a fire blanket 
over my
corpus
which accentuates 
the smothering 
and sheer othering 
darkness:
surrounded
sedated
trapped.

Nothing has happened 
all seems still.

When all the worlds’ stages
and pages
and urges
surge, submerge and gorge
insurgence.

Right here
on this still
small
blue 
bed,
somewhere else,
very
very
far
away.

Back in New York, I was convinced he had returned.
His eyes followed me walking down Canal, to Allen. 
His lips trailed the backs of my legs— the tops of my 
thighs, the creases of my calves. No one had ever come
this close. The days passed, this way. He did not spare
his attention, if even for a moment. And I began to 
understand what all had changed— heart, taking root
in my chest, everything too honest, that came before.
The flecks of light, beaded quandaries down along 
the slabs of snow, the waggling tails of happy dogs, 
nodes of oversaturated cups of tea, ringing heavy where 
they should have rang light; the residue of early rain— 
of this city, humid with hope, aperol and a busted fire 
hydrant up by his building, 79th and Columbus in 
the hopeless basin of early June; steam, and sweat 
and sweetness, all mingled into one. And the boys 
over at Malachy’s, fiddling again with joy between 
their teeth, with no more purpose than that of the birds
in the sky. He followed me, even to the restroom inside
the pub, bought a handle of beer when I arrived in blue. 
Sat too stiffly for my liking, but I let him watch me
anyway. I thought of that first summer, together— 
him and I. Of my fingertips in the beachwater, beneath 
the too-much-blue of its gates, its sky. We’d been buoyed 
by a rhythm run faster than time: bike wheels across dust, 
the slam of a screen door, the singed rake of hot grass,
the splash of ocean spray. Those days, where the warmth,
seeded into the skin of the face, seemed to stretch out 
through the thick of the wood and into the kitchen, 
where the cool of evening crush would pass over us, in 
waves. (Yes.) Together on our bellies, all the world was
overcome. Looking at him now, I didn’t quite know 
what to think. To tell him that I loved him was to separate 
the salt from the water. To lie. About my name, my favorite 
sweater, the color of my hair— and in doing so, make him
an accomplice in my life. To watch him redden at 
the ears, knowing that, yes, we were in public, and a secret 
is an intimate thing. The same God, whose chest I had 
pounded and writhed against, had sent me back. His hand 
on my neck, slow tenderness to soothe. What do you think 
happens, when this ends? I didn’t quite know what to say. 
Who cares? And for a moment there, on Earth, all the world 
was overcome. Not quite by laughter, but its memory— 
passing through us, like breath. Only the sun has ever come 
this close. Had it always been this warm, standing so still,
in the light? Ryan, tending bar, asks me if I’d like another
and I confess— I don’t even like beer, and we end it 
right there.

On Flaggy Shore 
I pick up a small stone. 

The mud of Genesis – 
muddiness in each of us, 

breath enters – mud 
and spirit together 
transformed into tenderness. 

Joy and pain, love and loss 
repeatedly giving birth 
to each other. 

Each heart with gems, 
jagged and smooth edges, 
vulnerable versions 

of ourselves, that catch 
the light and shines its spectrum 
back out into the world

If I could paint my world,
I would only have the color blue.
If I could taste my soul,
it would be bitter.

If my world were described by a melody,
you’d keep hearing Nocturne.
If I could be someone’s muse,
it would only be you.

I still wish for you with every shooting star,
counting the days we won’t be this far.

Holding on to dusted memories —
the forgotten ones.
My hands are covered in ink
from endless nights spent trying to leave a legacy,
pouring my archer feelings into useless words.

Another lonely night,
lost in pursuit of the reason for my existence.
Collapsed into the darkness of night,
I felt something crack my chest open.

Weightless, floating slowly,
I saw myself lying on the bed,
a deadly sorrow across my face,
hands clutching the ashes I kept.

I wandered and saw
many forgotten souls with forgotten names.
I wasn’t alone at all.
Never felt whole before —
finally grasping the feeling
that I could see you again.

Among all those forgotten souls,
I looked for yours.
Could not find you anywhere —
I kept searching though,
until I realized it was impossible
to find you in this deep dark hole.
Because you were never forgotten —
I kept you remembered.

There was no reconnection in afterlives,
for I never found you.

So paint me under the rain,
walking alone, raindrops on my face.
Paint me with a huge smile,
as if I had won the game against my fate.
Add some white flowers
to remind me of the innocence I have lost.
Add some color to the palette —
draw a warm, tinted new life.

Maybe I could live for once in your painting.
Maybe someone will hold onto my memories.
Maybe I could be remembered for once.
Maybe I could escape
the hole of the forgotten ones.

Close your eyes

Mangoes, crickets, rain, fans, lizards

Open your arms
Take the night that comes to you
Large black leaves cutting the moon, swaying slowly between two storms

Listen to your heart, your body, the delicious river of your feelings – good or bad – flowing from outer space into you.

The little voice that hesitates and doesn’t know
It will keep hesitating
It will never know

Here, there, yesterday or tomorrow
You may think about it
You may not think about it
It is all the same

And if, really, you want to make a change
Smile once
That’s enough
That’s better
That’s simple
That’s beautiful

Do not search
Do not change
Do not become stronger, nicer or wiser

You are the wonder

And that which you need most – the purest form of all silences – it is here already, it is in your hands

I imagine the gods saying, you will 
birth tiny blood orange blessings 
from Jupiter in your mouth. Be 
patient. Let each of them, one 
at a time, to the podium. Let them
baritone your desires like a treefrog. 
Let them be an orchestra of fermented
hearts. Let them unravel a sorbet sky 
for you to walk on. Let them reach you. 
You’re not being punished, the gods 
windchime into my flapping left ear. 
You must enter your suffering like she 
is an old friend. Hug her. Laugh with her.
Tell her it has been lovely to catch up.
Ask her if she remembers that wild night 
on Peach Street, or the lobster that you 
named Frank after his grouchy face. 
You have failed before. If you are lucky 
you will fail again. We can give you 
one more life if you take your time 
to taste our offering. Taste the shores of 
Salina and its blue ring of hope. Taste your 
mother’s evil eye ceramic plate. Taste the pink
skyless moon inside of your belly button. 
Taste your body forgiving you for all those years. 
Taste the lovers. Taste your grandmother’s shoes.

I fumble through the sheaves
and look for the silken thread 
you mentioned in your letter long ago
I fumble till my nails bleed at the edges
and all I can find is
a dim thinning of the veil

Frog legs in the bathtub,
Prickled and pruning.
I used to be smooth.
I used to be something. 

Dogged breath,
Warm and blue bated–
A wax doll in the boiling pot,
I am easily manipulated.

Fit and formed according to
my mother’s sharpest words.
And the sound of you so very gently,
Always talking me off the ledge.

Lovely little frog legs;
They are somebody’s favorite.

it must have been
a misunderstanding

i shouldn’t have
drawn on walls
but i was an artist
just finding
a canvas

i spoke
too much
too loud
but someone
had to
stand up
to injustice

i know
i got home late
but what is
a curfew
if not
to break?

i should have
read more books
but my brain
just didn’t
work that way

maybe
i was
harder to love

or did we
misunderstand
the game

I want to be a Buddhist nun,
but I don’t have the energy to clean.

My flat’s just had a flea infestation.
I had them killed.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead would let me off,
as I wasn’t the butcher.

I would rather be a flea,
in a community
worshipping blood,
than alone.

I’m too unwell to practice.

I need to stay alive,
don’t I?

A nunnery environment
is the only sunny outlook.
It’s not rose-tinted glasses:
the times I’ve been truly happy
have been while meditating.

I want the Buddha here beside me.
I don’t want magic to be stripped from me.

The job description had one line:
“Protect. Keep safe at all costs.”
Surely, I could do that.
I believed I could—
deep in my bones, I believed.
With confident certitude
I signed the dotted line,
crossed my t’s,
swore myself in.
A promise is a promise is a promise.
A role I was born for,
a job I could do
until I couldn’t.
Met with a card unexpectedly dealt,
an unfair turn of events,
blindsided by a malignant intruder.
How daft I was thinking
I had the kind of power
that could match the unforeseen.
What kind of mother was I 
if I could not keep my promise?
How will he ever forgive me?

Imagine, his red chalk poised over
the Milan hemp-rags, reborn as paper.
Ready to delve for metaphors,
he considers parables of his world:
the Royal Eagle in its radiant Absolutism,
the Papal Dog, steering, in allegiance,
that boat of Church, its teaching —
a water-tight institution.

But the Tree-Mast, fated to become
a riddle to be puzzled over by cognoscenti,
why the tree?

The centre of his allegory,
rooted in the bottom of the boat,
ennobled with the crown of leafy multitudes,
strong enough to spring the new shoots —
could it not stand for him for the myriads of faithful,
the heart of spirituality, perhaps?
The populous instrument for the boat moving on?
(Did he love it to rustle its airs of invocation?)

Imagine a storm of century, as it blows the leaves around,
twines them, split them off to a Small Island in the North,
the history coming to the side of another king and his sweetheart.

If, by chance, I don’t wake up,
If this slumber cools and locks,
The world will still tilt and spin 
And seasons turn, and with the clocks,
For I have set the sun
To rise each day and warm the air,
I’ve sprinkled snowdrops everywhere
For you. I told them not to cry:
‘Be beautiful,’ I said, 
And they nodded in reply.
I asked the stars to tip you the wink
And Mother Earth promised me
She’d paint the leaves
In russet, claret and gold
And the wind will swirl them crisp
For you. And when you’re old,
Without tears, I’ll come to mind
And there’ll be smells and words 
and fingerprints,
The things we leave behind.

She is the guide of all guides,
The glowing Moon who tames tidal waves;
The warm Sun who brings the morning light.
She is my Sister.

She is the apothecary who cures the ailments of my heart,
The intricate Yarrow who eases my pain;
The earthly Tulsi who soothes my sorrows.
She is my Sister.

She is the garden that is tethered to my soul,
The pure Jasmine who leaves behind blessings where she grows;
The fragrant Magnolia who teaches endurance with her sturdy blossoms.
She is my Sister. 

She is the shoulder on which I lay my heavy head,
The softness in my eyes;
The sweetness on my tongue,
She is my Sister.

She is the heart of my heart.
She is my Sister.

A woman brings her husband’s shoes
in a grocery bag because the ambulance
wouldn’t take them.

He arrived barefoot.

A man comes in holding
the plastic handle of a crockpot,
nothing attached to it,
blood dried between his fingers.

Once, someone brought a parakeet.

Once, a little girl carried
her mother’s purse against her chest
for six hours while we worked
on the mother.

Red leather, gold buckle,
one strap dragging the floor.

Nobody could find her father.

The girl knew the passcode
to her mother’s phone
but not which grown-up to call.

My daughters know mine.

At home that night
one of them had left her backpack
in the middle of the kitchen.

Inside were three uncapped markers,
a library book about whales,
half a granola bar,
the permission slip
I’d forgotten to sign.

I signed it.

In the morning
she carried it to school.

In the quiet of night,
grief and death dance,
two lovers entwined in shadows,
whispering secrets of the heart.
They meet in dreams,
where time suspends its cruel hand,
lost in the warmth of memory.

But dawn breaks,
pulling them apart,
their fingers slipping through the haze,
returning to the weight of duty,
the chill of reality,
where love is but a ghost,
haunting the spaces left behind.

Yet still, in the echoes of dreams,
they find solace,
two souls forever intertwined,
awaiting the night to reunite.

This morning I stood inside the story of something that was never supposed to sink.

The scale of it is still difficult to comprehend.

The ambition. The engineering. The confidence it must have taken to build something so extraordinary and then watch more than a hundred thousand people gather to see it leave.

And then, less than two weeks later, it was gone.

Not because of one villainous decision.

Not because somebody deliberately ignored the obvious.

More a collection of assumptions.

Confidence that became complacency.

Warnings that did not quite feel urgent enough.

Emergency preparations that technically existed, but were not enough.

Lifeboats that met the rules and still could not hold everyone.

Some of them leaving without being full.

Distress calls that went unheard.

A ship described as practically unsinkable disappearing beneath the Atlantic in a little over two hours.

There is something unsettling about that.

How easily safety can become something we assume rather than something we actively build.

I found myself wondering what the lifeboats are in my own life.

Not because I think I am sinking.

Maybe that is the point.

You do not build lifeboats because you expect the ship to go down.

You build them because you accept that being strong is not the same thing as being invulnerable.

I have spent a lot of my life assuming I could handle things.

That I would know when enough was enough.

That I could get myself out if I ever went too far.

That there would always be more time to change course.

Perhaps some of that was confidence.

Perhaps some of it was complacency.

I do not know.

But I am beginning to understand that the things that keep us alive are often much less impressive than the thing we are trying to protect.

A friend who answers.

A conversation I do not avoid.

A plan made before I need it.

An honest sentence.

Somewhere to go.

Someone who knows where I am.

Small boats beside something enormous.

Titanic disappeared into the Atlantic and stayed there until 1985.

Forty-one years later, I stood looking at what remained of its story and found myself thinking less about how something so extraordinary could sink.

And more about what we choose to have ready, just in case it does.

I forgot to stop myself the day I called you driver
Oh how I wanted you to take me away forever
You and I in desert land , drinking mint tea and eating dates
I close my eyes
The heat pressed across my face
Sounds of laughter ripple in from near by children
I turn to you
The desert disappears
Your smile never arrived
I look down to the Lifeless bags packed beneath me.

The vape smoke makes my eyes cry. The food I eat for pleasure burns me. Why do the things I love deny my adoration? Where I seek sustenance, I find disparity. What fuels me is not so secretly trying to harm me. I seek joy and am met with a backhanded slap. Why does the world I love treat me with such disregard? I have dedicated my admiration to the one thing big enough to crush me. In awe of the vastness as it actively pummels me. Life is so beautiful yet morbid. So stunning yet putrid. I am in agony and it is pure wonder.